Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Why did I cull corn just like all the
other chickens
At what point did I betray musical talent
for endless , repetitive nowhere living
To be eighteen again , 'tis a popular tune
sung by many
What caused me to write poetry for the first time
seven months ago , which fork in the avenue carried
me to everlasting love , why do I find great solace in being
alone
What force drives me to trouble my fellow writers
at this late hour with the roads I've chosen
Copyright April 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Silly children...
play with mirrors
as if we were doors,
portals to other times.
Theirs are night-games,
indulged in dark
imagination.
As if my hand-held cousin,
carried upstairs
walking backwards
could show the faces
of husbands or death.

Really.
We show only what we are shown.

Of course, in our years,
we have seen husbands
and deaths.

The braver child
will call upon us
in necromatic glee,
invoking the shade
of Mary Worth
to appear through us.
A cosmic crap-shoot,
depending much upon
Mary's mood
that particular night.
Three times
they call her name
before me,
hope they see her,
pray they don't.

I have been shown many
a Mary's death...

many a child's, too.
NaPoWriMo day 21 - poem about a minor character in a famous myth.

I thought an urban legend would be fun.  ;)
Ineffable (More Tornado Prayers and Such)*


Ineffable:
Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words;
Too sacred to be uttered.*
~~~

The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent
amen.

The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

~~~~~
The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...

(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

Ineffable.

A day,
just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.

I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection

On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.

to which we cannot say nor think
anything.

Ineffable.

too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these un-uttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.

Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,
silently.

An ineffable amen
Next page